Today, I Set A Good Example
by Croik
Summary: Post inception, Eames discovers Robert's eating disorder and does his best to support him through it.


Inception, it's characters and settings, don't belong to me and are being used here without permission but for not profit. Eames/Robert, rated PG-13 for mild sexual content, warnings for eating disorder.

**Today, I Set A Good Example**

Oneshot

* * *

><p>"I'm not hungry."<p>

Eames hated those words.

He was already halfway through his own breakfast: two hardboiled eggs sliced over toast, a tangerine, coffee. He had offered to prepare more, but Robert had been too busy with his phone to respond the first time, and grumbled nonsense the second, until Eames gave up. It was the same every morning: "I just need coffee," he would say. So they sat together at the kitchen table, conversing idly about the day ahead while Robert sipped and Eames ate. Sometimes it killed Eames' appetite enough that he would skip breakfast as well, but today was the day he was determined to set a good example.

A limo arrived to take them into the city. "I'll be in meetings for most of the morning," Robert said, still glued to his phone. "But I told Peter I'd meet him at Sai Sai for lunch, at noon. You'll come, too, won't you?"

Eames frowned. "I didn't think you liked Asian food."

"It's a fusion menu." Robert typed and tapped and possibly Tweeted without looking up. "So will you come?"

Eames told himself that today was the day he set a good example. "All right," he said, and he grinned. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see me." Robert spared a moment to smile back.

They reached the office just before eight, and immediately Robert was swept up in his first meeting of the day. Eames didn't yet have an official title at the new Fischer Morrow but he met with Robert's security, and fielded several inquiries, and did his best to be useful. He felt restless. He had never lived a corporate life, wasn't sure how Robert could do it every day and so well, and part of him ached to be back in a crummy, rented room, or a gambling parlor, or even the scene of a crime, where he could be a king. But Robert still needed him, in so many ways, and he was careful to give his errant thoughts only the barest consideration.

When Robert returned some hours later, he was in a good mood. "Everything's moving along according to schedule," he said. "We're going to visit the site later today. Construction is still going on but we should be able to get a better feel for the layout." He sat down behind his desk to check his emails. "Do you feel like ordering something?" he asked abruptly.

"Ordering something?"

"Food." Robert didn't look up from his typing. "A snack or something."

"I'm not hungry," Eames said before he could stop himself. He struggled to recover. "But if you want to, go ahead. If you get something I might nibble off it."

Robert checked his watch. "I guess it's not that much longer until lunch. I'll just wait."

Eames pursed his lips and could have kicked himself. "You skipped breakfast," he reminded him. "Why not just get a salad to tide you over?"

"I'm fine-it's only another ninety minutes." Robert leaned forward to press the intercom on his desk. "Shelby, could you bring me a bottled water? Thank you." He waved for Eames to sit down across from him. "Let me tell you how the meeting went."

Eames sighed, but he sat down. He couldn't help but feel that he had been played.

On their way to lunch Eames tried a new strategy. "I downloaded Sai Sai's menu while you were at your meetings," he said. "I know you're not keen on sushi, but I hear their tuna is best in the whole downtown area. Not to mention the grilled _unagi_."

Robert's lips quirked. "You know what they say about _unagi_."

Eames leaned in and slid his hand to Robert's knee. "You should order it," he said, giving him a squeeze. His fingers crept higher. "While Peter's handling the check we could slip off to the restroom and..."

Robert laughed, his eyes flashing as Eames' hand moved steadily up the inside of his thigh. "We could," he replied, and when Eames rubbed two fingers into his crotch he squirmed happily. "Not sure I need it, though."

"Order it anyway." Eames palmed him through his slacks. "It could be fun."

"Yeah..." Shivering, Robert pressed his hips forward. "Yeah, all right."

The limo began to slow, and Eames pulled his hand back. Robert heaved a sigh and glared at him. "Asshole." He took long drink from one of the limo's stocked waters and as soon as they were stopped he climbed over Eames to get out first. Eames smirked at him all the way inside.

Peter was not exactly thrilled to see Robert's choice of guest. Eames had received the same disapproving glare from many an overprotective guardian. He even made a show of tangling his fingers in Robert's on their way to the table. If a nosey photography caught it, it wouldn't be the first time.

They ordered drinks, and seeing Robert sip his contentedly gave Eames hope. But as soon as their waiter headed toward them with lunch plates in tow Robert launched into a fresh story about the new site. He dominated the conversation and while Eames and Peter ate he poked his lunch around the plate, leaving it mostly untouched. By the end of the meal he had taken no more than three bites-Eames counted-and when Peter volunteered to finish the rest, he happily relinquished it.

The check arrived, and as Peter dug out his wallet Robert gave Eames' foot a playful nudge under the table. Eames refused to make eye contact. He told himself that it wasn't a big deal and none of his business, but he couldn't help his frustration.

They climbed back into the limo together, but rather than take his seat Robert crawled into Eames' lap. "You chickened out," he teased as he straddled Eames' thighs and teased fingertips up and down his chest. "I thought we were getting a quickie."

Eames sank back into the leather. A quick and clumsy limo handjob seemed like a fantastic idea, and normally he would rise instantly to the occasion, but when Robert leaned into him all he could think about were the thin, bony hips beneath his hands. If he crept his fingers higher he would be able to feel every one of Robert's ribs, every ridge in his spine. For weeks it hadn't bothered or even really occurred to him, but it was suddenly very firmly in the way of his enjoyment.

Robert kissed him, slow and coaxing, but Eames could manage only a cursory response. Frowning, Robert leaned back. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Eames ground his teeth, debating on whether it was worth it to bring up, but at least Robert was in his lap and unable to escape. He wrapped his arms around his waist to be sure. "You didn't eat lunch," he said. He meant for it to be teasing but judging from the face Robert made, it didn't come out that way.

Robert leaned back. He laughed, short and fake. "What do you mean? I ordered the eel just like you said." He started to undo Eames' tie. "If we're quick, we can-"

"You ordered it," Eames interrupted. "But you didn't eat it."

Robert stopped, his hands tensing. "Yes, I did. It was good-didn't I even tell Peter?" He gave Eames' tie a jerk. "Why do you care? You didn't pay for it."

"I care because you didn't eat breakfast, either," Eames said. He already regretted bringing it up but there was no turning back. "You've barely eaten anything all week."

Robert swallowed. "Of course I have." He smiled, but it did nothing to hide the defensive anxiety brewing in his face. "I'm just not trying to maintain a figure like _yours_."

He dragged his hands down Eames' chest. It felt good and Eames wished he could just forget everything and let Robert continue. "I'm serious," he said. "It's starting to worry me."

Robert stared back at him, and predictably he tried to climb out of Eames' lap. "This is ridiculous."

Eames tightened his arms so that he couldn't get away. "Is something going on? I know you've been under a lot of stress lately, but-"

Robert cut him off with a derisive laugh. "'Stress' doesn't exactly cover it." He pushed at Eames' arms. "Let go."

"But that's all the more reason to take care of yourself," Eames finished stubbornly. "Coffee and cocktails aren't enough to-"

"I'm fine," Robert said. "And I _have_ been eating. You're not with me every moment of the day, are you?" He shoved at Eames again, digging in with his bony fingers, and at last Eames let him slide into a seat opposite him.

"I'm there for quite a few." Eames straightened his tie; his stomach was churning and he couldn't help but think he shouldn't have eaten lunch either. "Listen, Robert-I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want to know you're taking care of yourself-eating."

Robert crossed his arms defensively. "I'll eat when I'm hungry."

"But you're never hungry," said Eames.

"Then maybe you should just incept me again," Robert snapped. "_Make_ me hungry."

Eames recoiled. Every argument turned to mud in his mouth and he had to look away. They didn't speak for the rest of the trip.

Fischer Morrow's new site was still under construction, but enough had been built that Robert was able to take a tour of the facility. Within a few weeks it would be a fully functioning institute devoted to dream and shared dreaming research. Laboratories, classrooms and even a housing section were well on their way to being realized and stocked. Investors were lining up and researchers from all over the world had their eyes on what was set to be the premiere dreamshare institute, backed by one of the richest men in the world.

On paper it sounded brilliant. In reality it was even more so: the architecture was sophisticated and inspiring, and the grounds were articulated to the finest detail. It reminded Eames of one of Cobb's carefully sculpted dreamscapes while it was still on the page, ready and waiting to bloom into life.

As the foreman led Robert around the facility, apprising him of their progress and potential setbacks, Eames lingered behind. He wandered the grounds, staring down into the gouged earth where a fountain would eventually rest. He thought back through his first delicate exchanges with Robert after the plane from Sydney, trying to remember exactly what suggestions he had made, the exact moment he had told Robert the truth and what was said in the heated aftermath. His inception may have been the catalyst but he had never pointed Robert in this particular direction, he was sure of it-the creation he was witnessing was Robert's doing alone. He had to believe that.

How much the rest of it was his doing, he didn't know. At first he had taken pride in knowing that his actions, however ill-intentioned their beginnings, had given Robert well-deserved peace of mind. The fragile preservation of his relationship with Peter Browning could also be considered a victory in his favor. But Robert's sleep loss, his almost obsessive devotion to the restructuring of his company, and especially his failing appetite were effects Eames preferred not to have on his conscience. He would gladly shed all credit for Robert's current state if it almost meant shedding the blame.

Eames sat down on a bench that was still wrapped in plastic and pulled out his phone. When he checked his messages there was one from Arthur reminding him of a job in Madrid asking around for a forger. He saved it without replying, and instead opened a search window and typed in, _My__ boyfriend won't eat._

The first link was to a Yahoo question from an Englishwoman decrying her boyfriend's reluctance to perform oral. Eames heaved a sigh and scrolled, until he came to a blog post that looked to be more topical.

_I know he eats even less when I'm not around,_ it said. _He refuses to see a professional. I feel so helpless._

Eames closed the window. "Professional," he muttered. But it wasn't that bad, he knew it wasn't. It was just the stress and the workload bearing down on them, complicating things. It couldn't be that serious.

Eames sent a message back to Arthur suggesting another forger he had worked with before, and then headed inside.

He found Robert in one of the only finished rooms, which the workers had been using for their breaks. Everyone was bustling about and immediately Eames was set on edge. Robert was leaning back in a chair, his tie and top shirt buttons undone, a dampened paper towel pressed to his forehead.

"I'm fine," Robert was insisting to his assistant, Shelby, as she pushed a cup of water into his hand. "It's just the heat, and the dust." He spotted Eames in the doorway and something like guilt flashed through his eyes before he looked away. "Who are you calling? Stop that-it's nothing."

"What happened?" Eames asked, his heart quickening as he came forward.

"Nothing," Robert said immediately. "It's fine." His gaze snapped to Shelby. "Don't tell him."

"He passed out," said Shelby as she dialed her phone.

"No I did not!" Robert rocked forward, and the paper towel dropped into his lap. "I'm just a little tired, and I stumbled-because it's a work site, you know-I _stumbled_." When Shelby shot him a stern eye, he winced. "And I didn't recover so well, maybe."

Eames felt sick, but he smiled. "Clumsy as ever, huh Robbie?" But when he threaded his fingers through Robert's hair, Robert only allowed it for a brief moment before leaning out of range.

"I'm fine," he said again, growing ever more defensive. "Shelby who are you talking to?"

"I'm cancelling your meeting with Mr. West later today."

She was close enough that Robert was able to snatch the phone out of her hand. "Hello?" he said into it, and before she or Eames could stop him, he vaulted out of the chair and strode away. "Is this Terry? No, no, dont cancel the meeting. I'll be there."

Shelby harrumphed and turned on Eames. "He passed out," she repeated. "Would have gone over if Erhard hadn't been right there to catch him. Can you please talk to him?"

Eames rubbed his mouth. "I'll try."

Robert insisted on remaining for the rest of the tour. Eames stuck to his side, awkwardly attentive. They hardly spoke at all until Robert was satisfied that he had seen everything and they returned to the limo. He started to button his shirt at last, but then paused, and instead sank into Eames' shoulder with a long sigh.

Eames tried not to tense. "You okay?"

"I'm just tired," he said quietly. "Can we not talk about it now?"

"All right." Eames felt a flash of guilty relief-he didn't know what to say anyway. He stretched his arm over Robert's shoulders. "Come'ere."

Robert twisted, throwing both legs over Eames' lap so he could nestle into him. His earlier irritation seemed to drain out of him as he closed his eyes and all but shrank beneath Eames' strong arm. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with sleep already. "Wake me when we get there..."

Eames closed his eyes, too. He wanted to sleep as well, but he was too distracted by the feeling of Robert settling into him, weary and needy. When he moved his fingers gently against the back of Robert's neck, he hummed and tried to wriggle closer still. It was encouraging and frightening at once, and he wished he could squirm out from under this boy that needed him, and just run away for a while. He was looking forward to the day he could find the strength to be a coward again.

As soon as they reached the office Robert disappeared into the bathroom, and came out looking composed and fresh and alert again. "I'm meeting with Mr. West and his investors," he said briskly, "and after that, Ms. Remmer and Dr. Holtz. I probably won't be finished until after seven so if you get hungry, don't wait on me to have dinner. I'll throw something together when I get home."

Eames leaned against Robert's desk. _No, you won't_, he almost said. "Sure. I'll have my phone on if you need anything."

Robert stopped in front of him, and the guilty look flashed through him again. He scraped his palm over his mouth. "I'm sorry, for what I said earlier."

Eames' eyebrow twitched, and finally what he was thinking made it to his mouth. "You keep saying it's okay. That you're happier now than you were before anyway."

"I am," Robert said quickly. He edged closer. "I am happy."

"Then you can't keep throwing it back in my face," said Eames, his hands tense on the edge of the desk. "If you're going to hold it over me forever I might as well not be here."

"No." Robert shifted his weight back and forth, and after some deliberation closed the remaining distance between them. "You're not going anywhere," he said firmly, pressing his splayed fingers into Eames' ribs. "You know I didn't mean it."

Eames couldn't help but stare straight back into Robert's brilliant blue eyes-he felt as if he were being hypnotized. "I know," he replied. "And I'm sorry, if I was hard on you."

Robert leaned forward and kissed him. He tasted like a teenager trying to mask his insecurities with authority. It was one of the reasons Eames hadn't left yet: he loved the way Robert crashed into him, youthful and selfish and insincere, like a boy trying to find himself in his own skin. He knew he wasn't Robert's first by a long shot but there were times Robert let him pretend that he was, and it felt so damn good to mean something to someone, even if he himself had gouged out the space in Robert's heart he now occupied.

When Robert kissed him again, Eames' heart beat a little faster, and with a sharp breath he leaned back. "You should get to your meeting," he said. "We'll..." He brushed his thumb over Robert's lower lip. "We'll finish this later."

"I'm looking forward to it." Robert kissed Eames' thumb and stepped back. "And I'll eat something, since you're so concerned. Melissa always has something out for these things."

Eames wanted to point out that he ought to be eating for his own sake, but it wasn't worth it to get into another fight. "Then I'll see you tonight."

"Until then." Robert flashed him a smile and snatched up his briefcase on his way out.

Eames let his breath out. He felt as if he were reeling and he wasn't sure why.

He went back to the house-Robert's house, recently purchased. It was cozier than the downtown condo he had occupied previously, but the staff still kept it crisp and almost sterile. Everything was in its proper place, and rather than find a place for himself Eames changed his clothes and went to the gym. As ridiculous as it seemed to him that Robert owned a gym room at all, it had come with the house and was well stocked, and he had already spent a great deal of his free time in it.

As Eames devoted himself to a rigorous workout his phone beeped with an incoming email. By the time he got to it to check, Robert had sent him a series of attached photos: one of a bowl of fruit on Melissa Remmer's conference room table, the second of him biting into a banana, and finally the empty peel at the bottom of a trash can. Eames shook his head-he couldn't imagine Robert taking a picture of himself fellating fruit in the middle of an important meeting-but he smiled, and felt a little better as he went back to work.

When he was finished he stood in front of the mirror, shirtless and sweating, admiring. He had lived well the last several weeks and it showed: personal chefs, a private gym, and regular sex had done wonders for his physique. He was raw and cut and he allowed himself a few moments of uninterrupted pride before his earlier doubts could creep in.

Robert looked nothing like him. Robert was slender and pale, beautiful really, and Eames wondered if he ever stood in front of a mirror and just _knew_ that. He didn't think so.

Robert didn't return home until after eight. He was tipsy and giggling, and he set on Eames as soon as he was through the doorway. "You showered," he noted, tugging Eames' T-shirt up his back. "Were you working out?"

"I was earlier." Eames helped him pull the shirt off, but frowned when they leaned into each other. "You've been drinking."

"Just a little." Robert kissed him with lips that tasted like vodka. Eames had half a mind to ease him off but then Robert's long fingers began to roam over his chest, around to his back, pawing and eager. He was thrumming with energy and Eames couldn't say no. When Robert's hands crept down the front of his pants he forgot all objections, and he scooped Robert up, carrying him only as far as the plush sofa in the living room.

Robert was in rare form that evening. As soon as he was on his back he pulled Eames insistently to him, arching into every touch, moaning into every kiss. They wasted no time to shed clothing and spared the barest moments for preparation, and then Robert was writhing beneath Eames as if sparks were shooting through him. His enthusiasm was contagious and Eames responded voraciously, rocking him into the cushions, drinking him in. It was heated and intoxicating and Eames was grateful; he didn't want to fight over a mere three bites, or a happy accident of a mind crime, or even the narrow limbs drawn taut around his broader body. They were good for each other and they were _happy_, damn it, in all the ways that mattered.

When they had finished, panting and blissful, Robert curled up against Eames' chest and sighed. "Let's just stay here," he murmured.

"We should at least clean up." Eames kissed him and crawled off the sofa. "I'll be right back."

By the time Eames finished tidying up and returned with a towel, Robert was dressed only in his shirt and briefs, seemingly half asleep. He accepted the towel and as he cleaned up he said, "I mean it, let's just sleep here."

Eames smiled, but then he remembered he had prepared himself for this. He did his best to keep his tone light and neutral and asked, "What about dinner?" Sitting on the floor next to the sofa, he touched Robert's hair affectionately. "I haven't eaten yet."

"Hm?" Robert peeked one eye open and quickly closed it again. "Then go ahead. I'm not hungry." He hummed. "I had something with Melissa."

Eames frowned. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He reached out blindly and managed to draw his hand lazily down Eames' cheek. "So you go ahead, and I'll keep this sofa warm for you."

"All right..."

Robert settled in, and seemed to be instantly asleep. Eames stared at him for long moments afterwards, trying not to believe the obvious: Robert had lied. He hadn't dodged or changed the subject, he had simply lied, almost without hesitation. Eames was accustomed to being on the receiving end of far worse but as he sat there, his fingertips tracing the bony nape of Robert's neck, he remembered a young woman's blog.

_I feel so helpless._

Eames' eyes narrowed, and with a grumble he pushed to his feet. "The hell with that."

Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang, and Eames tipped the delivery man very well for his collection of grocery bags. He made more commotion than was necessary in carrying them to the kitchen, turning on lights along the way, drawing cutting boards and implements out of the drawers. As he reached for the hand soap he heard Robert call from the next room.

"Who was at the door?"

Eames scrubbed his hands clean. "Come see."

Robert grumbled, and Eames could hear the sofa squeaking as he tossed and debated. At long last he wandered into the kitchen. Eames was pulling out vegetables by then and didn't look back, but judging by the sudden halt of Robert's bare footsteps on the tile, he wasn't happy with what he'd found.

"What's all this?" Robert asked warily.

"I'm making myself dinner." Eames didn't glance back but he did wave Robert forward. "Come sit down-keep me company. I want to hear about how things went with Dr. Holtz."

"It was fine." Robert sank into a chair. "She's looking forward to coming to work at the institute. You know, I was worried we'd be able to find enough reputable specialists willing to come aboard."

"It's not the reputable ones you have to worry about," Eames said, smiling as he held a bulb of fennel under the tap. "It's the criminals that have been working in shared dreaming for years, coming out of the woodwork in search of a clean paycheck. I hope your people do better background checks for their scientists than they did for me."

Robert scoffed. "They didn't have to for you. _I_ vouched for you." He was quiet for a moment, until Eames began shredding the fennel. "What is that?"

"It's fennel." He cast a smirk over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you've never-"

"Of course I know, I just can't see it from here." Robert dropped his chin into his palm. "Are you making _salad_?"

"It's one thing I'm making," Eames replied. He plucked off a slice of the fennel and popped it in his mouth. "Tastes like licorice."

"What?"

"Fennel." Eames continued to slice, telling himself to be patient. "It tastes a little like licorice, don't you think?"

Robert harrumphed. "Not really."

"What? Of course it does." Eames scraped what he had done into a bowl. "Everyone says so."

"Well I like licorice but I don't like fennel," Robert said. "They're not the same."

"I didn't say they're..." Eames shook his head and turned around with a piece between his fingers. "Here, try it."

Robert's eyes went cold, and Eames could have kicked himself for pushing too soon. Suddenly the entire conversation was a setup: the last thing he had intended for, the last thing that would work. But he held the piece out anyway, his face easy and without pressure.

"No thanks," Robert said.

"Oh come on." Eames nibbled at the slice. "It's good if you suck on it."

Robert's eyebrows rose. "If you suck on it," he repeated.

Eames smiled. "Yeah. You're pretty good at sucking on things, aren't you?"

Robert groaned and rolled his eyes, but Eames continued to hold his gaze, and at last he relented. He pushed to his feet and moved to stand next to Eames at the counter. "All right," he said, reaching for Eames' hand. "I'll try it."

Eames consulted his instincts, and just before Robert got a hold of the fennel he drew it out of reach. "Close your eyes," he said.

Robert glared. "Why? I already said I'd-"

"Please." Eames hooked his arm around Robert's waist. "Humor me."

"Stupid," Robert grumbled, but he closed his eyes. "Do you want me to say 'ahh'?"

Eames hesitated. He could feel tension threading through Robert's body, like ropes drawing tight beneath his skin, and his mind reeled at the thought of a simple bite of vegetable causing anyone so much anxiety. Frustration brewed in his stomach and almost killed his own appetite. But as he studied Robert's face, the slant of his eyebrows and the barely perceptible grimace in the corners of his mouth, he finally realized.

It wasn't about a single piece of fennel-it wasn't really about eating at all. It wasn't about stubbornness, or vanity. It was in his head but it was real, as pervasive as anything that had been planted inside him, and it was something Eames might never fully understand.

Eames dropped the fennel and wound both arms around Robert's back. He drew him into a kiss, full of passion and sincerity. At first Robert shied away, a gasp hissing between their lips, but then a shiver ran through him, and he pressed into Eames urgently. His hands danced over Eames' shoulders and the back of his neck like fleeting butterflies uncertain of where to land-wanting to hold him, wanting to push him away. Every quiet murmur was a half-formed apology that only made Eames more desperate. He wished he _could_ incept Robert again, plant their kiss deep beneath the layers of his subconscious, so that Robert would always know without question that he was desirable, and worthy, and adored.

But all he had was a kiss. He made the most of it, all but smothering Robert with his good intentions, until Robert at last separated them, panting. Forehead to forehead they caught their breath. Robert touched his shoulders, his neck, working himself to courage. "Eames..."

As ready as Eames was to hear whatever he had to say, he knew that Robert wasn't yet at that point. So he smiled, and kneaded both hands affectionately into Robert's lower back. "So? Do I taste like licorice?"

Robert half sighed, half chuckled, and pressed a little kiss to his lips. "Maybe. I'm still not sure." His hands flexed uncertainly against Eames' collar, a silent question.

"Now that I've got you, why don't you give me a hand?" Eames said. He let go of Robert with one arm and turned him toward the sink. "The sooner I get to eat, the sooner we can get back to that sofa, hm?"

"You think I know how to cook?" Robert said doubtfully.

"Oh, it's not so hard." Eames motioned for him to wash up and he did so, though reluctantly. "Just finish slicing that fennel and I'll show you what's next. And I'll start the entre."

Robert's eyebrows quirked. "If you say so."

"There's a peach." Eames kissed his cheek and then reached for the bags again, removing two wrapped salmon fillets. Robert watched out of the corner of his eye as Eames selected a skillet and warmed it on the stove.

"Shouldn't you have started that first?" Robert said as he gripped and then adjusted his grip on the knife. "So it could marinate?"

"So you _do_ know how to cook?" Eames teased. He rinsed the fish gently and placed both on a plate so he could coat them with olive oil. "They don't really need it."

Robert cut each strip carefully, his brow furrowing with the effort. His slices were not nearly as thin or uniform as Eames' but he tried. "You're not going to get much flavor into them that way."

Eames smirked as he sprinkled only a bare amount of salt and pepper onto each. "They'll be fine, I promise." After rinsing the oil off his fingers he dug into his bags again for a pair of oranges. He set them next to Robert's cutting board. "Could you peel these when you're finished?"

Robert rolled his eyes, but when Eames leaned into him, murmured "Please" against his ear, he squirmed. "I guess I can't screw that much up," he said.

"You're doing perfectly," Eames assured and returned to his half of the meal preparation. He wasn't as sure of himself as he was trying to project, but as he transferred the salmon to the skillet he peeked at Robert and caught him sneaking a slice of the fennel into his mouth. He smiled.

The fish began to hiss in the pan just as Robert finished with his first task. He leaned into Eames' shoulder and frowned. "Is that really all you're going to season it with?" he asked, oozing with skepticism.

"Yes, yes." Eames nudged him with his elbow. "Back to work."

Robert harrumphed, and strode purposefully to the fridge. He returned with lemon juice and immediately uncapped it. "It just needs a little," he said.

"It's fine," Eames insisted, trying to crowd the stove so Robert had no in. "Stop trying to ruin my dinner."

"It's just going to taste like fish." Robert tried to lean around him with the bottle.

"It _is_ fish, it's_ supposed_ to taste like fish."

Robert glared at him, relenting, but as soon as Eames let his guard down his arm shot forward, and he dumped a more than ample amount of lemon juice onto the two fillets. As they hissed Robert capped the bottle-smugly-and returned it to the fridge. "You'll thank me."

Eames sighed, but then Robert was at his side again, orange in hand. With a shake of his head he wound his arm around Robert's waist and kept him close as he watched over his lemon-drowned dinner. "It's a good thing I'm hungry enough to eat anything," he said.

Robert fell quiet as he peeled his orange. Eames let him be, sensing that he was working up to something, and sure enough it only took a few moments more.

"It started in high school," he said.

Eames kept his eyes on the fillets, turning them over to brown the second side. He wanted to look but his instincts told him otherwise-the patience he hadn't been able to cling to earlier was the greater necessity. So he slipped his fingertips beneath Robert's shirt, gently caressing the bare skin above his hip in silent encouragement.

Robert licked his lips and went on. "It was never serious. Or at least, never to the point where more than the family doctor had to intervene. I got through it. It's kind of...come and gone, since then."

Eames hummed softly. He wanted to be frustrated, to hate Maurice and Peter and anyone else involved who might have known what Robert was going through and done nothing, but none of that would help. "So you haven't...talked about it, with anyone?" he asked carefully.

"I didn't want anyone to know." Robert tossed his orange peel onto the counter but kept the fruit, turning it over in his hands. "I didn't want _you_ to know."

It was harder for Eames to mask his reaction-his arm tensed around Robert's waist and his brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because..." His voice lowered as if a sudden calm had come over him. "Because I don't want you to leave yet."

"I'm not that easy to scare off," said Eames.

"Yes you are." Robert plucked the orange apart slice by slice. "I've seen you thinking about it."

Eames started to deny it, but he only needed to think back hours to remember that Robert was right. He swallowed, hard. He imagined he knew what Robert would like to hear, but he had learned a lot time ago about making promises he couldn't keep. "It's not that I..."

Robert lifted an orange slice and pressed it to Eames' lips. "I think your fish is ready," he said.

Eames accepted the offering between his teeth, and as he reached for a plate Robert moved from his side. "It's all right," Robert continued as he mixed the remaining slices into the same bowl as the fennel. "I knew what this was going in. And don't worry; I'm not about to pull any kind of 'go and I'll never eat again' nonsense either."

Eames' brow lifted as he slid the fillets onto a plate. He hurried to gulp his orange slice down so he could reply before Robert went on. "I never would have expected that from you anyway," he assured. "If you really wanted to blackmail me, threatening to turn me over to the police would be much more effective."

As he'd hoped, Robert grinned. "And I haven't done that in at least three weeks."

"Two, if trying to deport me counts."

They tossed the fennel and orange slices with a bit of olive oil, and topped it with dried cherries. It was a simple, swift meal, tarnished only by Eames' lingering discomfort. By then it must have been obvious to Robert what he had been up to, and he feared that alone would render the gesture useless, but then Robert pinched off a corner of one of the fillets and popped it in his mouth. His lip quirked, and he said, "Told you so."

Eames smiled and handed him a fork. "Yes, yes. You're always right." When Robert started to pick the plate up, however, he stopped him. "Let's just eat here," he suggested, and his hand slipping up the back of his shirt convinced Robert it was a good idea.

There was still tension in Robert's spine, but he stabbed his fork purposefully into the salad and swallowed down a mouthful. "You've been here for a while now and I never knew you could cook," he said.

"I haven't really needed to, with your fancy chefs around." Eames took a bite of the fish and had to admit, even if the lemon was a bit overpowering, it was good. He moved his fingertips gently against Robert's skin. "I can do it more often, if you like."

"Yeah...I'd like that."

Robert leaned into Eames' hip as he continued to make slow work of his portion. It was humbling for Eames to see Robert make the simple action of eating into a battle of will power, and he wished again that he could slip into his mind and remold him. But then Robert smiled, and added, "But only if you let me do the seasoning."

Eames smiled back. "Deal."

He pressed a kiss to Robert's temple. It was the best he could do, and for the moment, it was enough. By the time they had finished and were settling again into the couch he was already planning what he would make for breakfast come morning.


End file.
